


Jealousy? Nonsense.

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Author Harry Potter, Biting, Blood, Body Worship, Dirty Talk, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Intercrural Sex, Intergluteal Sex, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Tension, Slytherin Harry, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 12:59:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12433374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Set within the universe of The Serpent's Gaze, some years after the events of the war. No spoilers! Just a natural follow-ahead. This pairing occuring in this way isn't set in stone - think of it as fanfiction of my own fanfiction.When Harry surprises Draco at home, they get to talking, and Draco - after far too long - realises something about himself and his relationship with Harry.





	Jealousy? Nonsense.

As Draco moves into his quarters, he feels the very corridors seem to inhale his scent: the lanterns flicker on above him, and as he walks down the hall, flowers and leaves lean in to meet him. Draco puts out his hands on each side, meeting his plants halfway, and as he turns into his laboratory, a Kissing Rose leans in to meet him.

The violet bloom touches against his nose, and he reaches out, stroking its stem. This Kissing Rose, Horace Slughorn had told him, had belonged to Severus Snape when he was still a teacher at Hogwarts.

Draco recognizes the plant; it had been taken from a cutting of his Father’s Kissing Rose, which had grown to be some six feet wide, with dozens of flowers and broad, affectionate flowers. When he returns to the Potionmaster’s quarters every evening, it greets him with a warm embrace, and Draco is reminded of being in his father’s greenhouse when he was a child.

Moving further into the room, he looks over the five cauldrons laid out upon his work station, taking one immediately from the boil and stirring it six times, clockwise. Six more times, anticlockwise. It turns a golden yellow, bubbles beginning to appear on its thick, jelly-like surface, and he leaves it to set for ten minutes – it’s a balm for burns.

What Draco hadn’t realized when he accepted the position of Potionsmaster at Hogwarts was how much of his duties would include brewing the materials for the Infirmary; barring Skele-Gro and Drowsy Dragon, two of Madam Pomfrey’s trusted brand names, everything was brewed within Hogwarts, either by Poppy herself or by the Potionsmaster.

“Draco, you really _must_ let us know if the workload is too much for you,” Pomona Sprout had told him at his first breakfast at the staff table, two years ago. He had begun an apprenticeship as a Healer, but found the work itself too violent: it had been Andromeda Tonks who had suggested he take up a teaching position at Hogwarts, and he doesn’t regret it.

“I will, Pomona. Thank you,” he had said. The workload has never been too much, not thus far, even with that outbreak of Foxus last year, where every Hufflepuff and Gryffindor had needed a drop of tincture on their painful, orange spots.

Tonight, Draco has a leisurely Friday evening ahead of him. Every potion except the burn balm is set to boil for at least another twelve hours, and his marking for the week is complete. All he’s going to do is sit down next to his fireplace, take a book in his lap, and—

 _“Mmmf—!_ ” Draco is struggling, but the grip around his upper arms is tight, and there is a gloved hand pressed tight against his lips: he flicks his foot back as best he can, hooking behind his attacker’s ankle, and tries to twist the other’s form out from under him. His attacker responds by half lifting him from the ground, leaving Draco struggling and kicking…

And then Draco drops to the ground, released, and he turns to see the smug form of Harry James Potter, wearing dress robes and dishevelled hair.

“Why do you have to _attack_ me whenever you visit? Why can’t you just knock?”

“Keeps you on your toes,” Harry replies, grinning and showing his teeth. “Besides, everyone else knocks. Blaise knocks, Theo knocks… Even Hermione knocks!”

“Theo works here, and Blaise and Hermione both call in advance. _You_ appear in my quarters like an aggressive ghost, and you jump me!”

“You’d know if I jumped you,” Harry says, _scoffing_ , and Draco shakes his head. He leads the way from his laboratory, moving down the corridor and into his modest kitchen, and he sets the kettle on the hob to boil. Draco looks at Harry, examining him for any sign of damage or illness, but Harry looks as hearty and healthy as ever. It’s been six years since the end of the war, now, and Harry no longer has the haggard look of a boy under pressure, or bags under his eyes, or a reflex to attack anything that moves too quickly when he isn’t expecting it.

But he’s different, now. Harry’s different to the boy he was when Draco met him on the Hogwarts expression, and different again to the boy he was when the Ministry of Magic declared war on the Dark Lord in 1995… But Draco’s different, too. How could he pretend otherwise?

“How’s the next book coming?” Draco asks. Harry pulls out one of the kitchen chairs, sinking slowly into it: on the wall to the very edge of the room is a shelf with some childhood photographs, and with copies of Harry’s books. Draco has all three of them, each in hardback, signed by the author himself. He’d never thought about it, when they were at school, that all that bloody letter writing might actually make a writer of Harry Potter…

But Harry’s a good writer. He really, really is. _The Truth About War_ , Harry’s first book, had won international awards, and the other two, _The Haunting At The Starling House_ and _Something In The Water_ , had each been best sellers. The first had been a kind of autobiography, but the other two…

Harry calls it investigative journalism, but the books seem to Draco like non-fictional versions of the books Gilderoy Lockhart had written before the Second War. The Starling House had been haunted since the end of the First War, filled with the echoes of the fourteen people that had been murdered there when the Starlings had refused the Dark Lord’s favour. And the thing in the water…

Draco had read that book with the lights on and the curtains shut, while insisting that Theodore Nott (Irma Pince’s assistant for four years now) stay in the room with him, but _not_ because he was scared. The fact that Harry had dealt with the monster had kept him up almost as much as the idea of the thing itself had.

“It’s going well,” Harry says mildly. “It’s a case up in the islands. A fae thing, steals children from their bed – Squib children.”

“That’s horrible,” Draco says, softly.

“Yeah, it is,” Harry agrees. “We don’t have to talk about it, Draco. And you don’t have to read my books, either, just because I write them.”

“I do, though.” Draco shakes his head as he speaks, taking up the kettle and pouring them each a cup of coffee. “I won’t lie, Harry, the things you go out and face of your own accord… They scare me. But I’m rather glad you’re doing it, I suppose, and I do enjoy your writing, even if the subject matter is chilling.”

Harry takes the mug from Draco, and the two of them move to sit in the living room; the fire crackles to life beside them, and Draco watches as Harry relaxes and basks in the heat like a cat. “How are the students this year?”

“The first years? Oh, they’re fine,” Draco says mildly, taking a sip of his coffee. “It’s just going to be weird in another five years, I think, when all of my friends’ children start attending. Frank’s wife is pregnant with their second now.”

“Really? He hasn’t mentioned that!”

“They let the news out last weekend,” Draco murmurs, smiling. “He probably just hasn’t written you yet.” There’s a pause between them, and Harry seems utterly contented. His visits during term time are always impromptu, but Draco doesn’t really complain: he is glad to see Harry when he can, given that the other man is often on the move, travelling from place to place or dealing with dangerous business. “Mother was asking me when I plan to settle down with a wife.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her I’d wait for the right woman,” Draco says simply, and Harry chuckles. “Doesn’t she ask you?”

“Oh, yeah. Her, Molly, Dromeda… Every woman I know asks me if I’m going to marry any time soon. Even Sirius was talking about carrying on the Potter family line the other day.” Harry speaks fondly, shaking his head and taking a sip from his coffee, and Draco watches him for a second.

“Have you been dating?”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry says. “Nobody I’d impregnate, though.” Draco crinkles his nose, and Harry chuckles into his mug, looking into the crackling fire. “I sleep with different people, Draco. Don’t tell your mother, but I don’t know if I really want kids.” Draco thinks about being at Hogwarts, with he, Harry, Theo and Blaise all cooped up together in one of their rooms, talking about their futures… Harry had always joined the conversations about careers, but never really those about relationships, or children.

“Some people would say you have a responsibility to have children,” Draco says, delicately, and Harry’s face whips to face him, his eyes indignant, but Draco adds, “You’ve fulfilled more than your fair share of responsibilities, Harry. It’s your right not to have children.” The indignation slowly fades from Harry’s eyes, the deep green of them losing that angry spark, and he relaxes. “There might be rumours, though.”

“Rumours? What, that I can’t get it up?”

“Well, if you don’t marry or have any children – you know what they said about Dumbledore. Or about a man like Lindon Sartorius.” Draco clucks his tongue, shaking his head: the papers make up more stories than they research, really, and he can imagine the snide implications that Harry might prefer men over women, that he might be something of a deviant. _Ridiculous_.

“Fair enough,” Harry says. “It’d be nice for them to report on something true once in a while.” Draco furrows his brow, turning to look at Harry. Harry turns his head, meets Draco’s gaze; his expression is mild, neutral. He doesn’t look like he’s joking. “What? You never suspected?”

Draco opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “You— But you’ve been with women. Luna Lovegood, Ginny Weasley… You had _Lixie Pott_.”

“Sure,” Harry agrees. “But men too. Muggle men, some of them… I slept with Myron Wagtail at a party last spring.”

“Myron Wagtail? From the Weird Sisters? You don’t even _like_ the Weird Sisters!”

“I like Myron well enough,” Harry replies, all his usual witty humour, and Draco sits up in his chair, _staring_ at the other man. Things have changed in recent years: more people have shown themselves in the press their partners, and the word “gay” has made its way into wizarding vernacular more and more… “Draco, it’s not important.”

“But— But people like us don’t… Don’t _do_ things like that.”

“You’ve never thought about it?” Harry asks, arching one of his eyebrows. There’s something about the expression that reminds Draco of Severus Snape, and he frowns, his lips pursed together. “It’s not so different to being with a woman.”

“Really? Then why can’t your friend Sartorius settle down with a lady?”

“He has,” Harry points out, and Draco _scoffs_.

“Hayworth isn’t what I mean.” Harry sets his mug down, now quite empty of coffee, and he looks at Draco in a sort of studious way, as if Draco is one of his journalistic projects, and Harry is getting ready to take notes. “The difference in _infrastructure_ alone…”

“Infrastructure?” Harry repeats, and then laughs. “ _Please_. You’ve not gone your life believing the only sex you can have involves a penis in a vagina? Draco, there’s a lot more than that.” Harry leans forwards, his hands on his knees, and he says, “Have you ever put your mouth on a girl?” Draco feels the heat in his cheeks, knows that he must be pink as roses, and he presses his lips tightly together.

“I really don’t think this is appropriate,” he says, shortly.

“Alright,” Harry says. He leans his chin upon his fist, his legs curled up beneath him, and he looks at Draco with more affection than Draco’s ever received from anybody. Harry’s eyes are soft, his smile warm; Harry looks at his friends, Draco has always known, as if they’re the most precious thing in the world. It’s the sort of look Draco normally sees as people look at their children or their family, or their spouses, but Harry… He’s somewhat different in that regard. “Sorry, Draco. I know you’re shy about sex.”

“I’m not _shy_ about sex.”

“Alright,” Harry says again.  For a long few moments, there is silence. Draco listens to the soft crackle of the fire, to the tick-tock of the clock in his corridor, and to the pulse of his own heart in his ears.

“But—” Draco stops himself.

“But?”

“How do you…” Draco twists his lips. “There’s no… _Entrance_.”

“No vaginal entrance.”

“Exactly.”

“There’s other things.” Harry shrugs his shoulders. “Oral sex. Intercrural sex – that’s very old fashioned, like the Ancient Greeks; you thrust between the other person’s thighs. Intergluteal sex, a little more modern, but still very classical; that’s between the other’s buttocks. And then there’s anal.”

“A-anal?”

“Anal sex. Penetrating the anus.”

“ _I surmised!_ ” Draco hisses, and Harry laughs – of course he does. It is not as if Draco is an innocent in regards to sex; once or twice now, in conversations with Theodore Nott, the other man has laughed and labelled Draco as _vanilla_ , but truly, sex is perfectly satisfying without any additional toys or elements. Draco is traditional: simple, straight-forward relationships are quite enough for him, and as for _anal_ … “Surely that’s painful?”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” Harry asks, and then he smiles. “It’s actually quite nice.”

“I meant for the one being penetrated,” Draco says. Harry blinks at him.

“Me too.” _Oh_.

“You don’t mean to say you are the— The _passive_ party in the proceedings?”

“Listen to all that posh talk come out,” Harry says, sounding absolutely delighted. He shows all of his teeth: when he grins like this, if Draco leans forwards, he can see the glint of the silver cap inside Harry’s mouth, where Poppy Pomfrey replaced his tooth back in third year. “You sound like your _mum_.”

“I would thank you not to bring my mother into this!”

“Draco, it’s just _sex_. I’ve been inside women, I’ve been inside men. Men have been inside me.”

“It all seems rather indecent.”

“Oh, didn’t realize you were married and having sex with the covers on and the lights off. You’re exactly a virgin, are you?”

“That’s rather _different,_ isn’t it?”

“Not really. I was with other boys long before I got physical with girls. Draco, what you need to understand is that—”

“Other boys?” Draco interrupts him, leaning forwards. “Other— At _Hogwarts_ , you mean?” Harry seems to hesitate, and Draco leans away from him, searching his mind.

“Draco—”

“No, no, let me think this through. You were with a girl in sixth year, with Denise Whittington, that seventh year Ravenclaw. So _before_ sixth year, then – fifth year? _Fourth_ year?” Harry’s mouth is closed, his eyes on Draco, and so he continues, “Who, then? Seamus Finnegan, undoubtedly something of a deviant, but hardly someone you could spend time with. Neville Longbottom, perhaps? One of the—”

Draco stops talking. Silence strikes him with all the suddenness of a snake bite, his eyes widening, his mouth opening slightly.

“Draco?”

“Blaise Zabini,” Draco whispers. It all returns to him, now: Harry with his curtains closed in the middle of the night, despite not being shy or modest about his body in the slightest; Harry and Blaise coming in late for classes, each looking as if they’d been in a broom cupboard with a girl, Blaise with his legs over Harry’s lap, their bodies a little too close for propriety. “You and Blaise Zabini?”

Harry pauses a moment more, and then says, “I don’t know that it’s really my place to say.”

“You were in my _bedroom_!”

“My bedroom too. And we could hardly go in Theo and Blaise’s – that’s the bedroom of a religious man you’re talking about.”

“A religious man who goes through five girls a week!”

“And three times as many books.”

“Take this _seriously_!”

“I _am_ ,” Harry insists. He looks at Draco, gives him a smile. It’s a soft smile, one that makes Draco want to forget about all this and just talk about whatever Harry’s investigating – a faerie stealing children would be an _easier_ conversation, even if Draco did have nightmares afterwards.

“Were you just seducing men all around me? What else was I ignorant of?”

“I wasn’t _seducing_ people. We just… There’s ways you know. That the other man is like you. Subtle ways.”

“And how did you know I wasn’t? What, pray, spared me from this attention?” Draco asks, and he is surprised by the indignation heavy in his own voice; Harry looks at him curiously.

“Well, you never tried to kiss me, for one.” Draco presses his lips together, watching the other man with an uncertainty he has rarely felt, and Harry seems perplexed, but moreover, concerned. He leans in closer, and he asks, “It wasn’t _predatory_ , Draco. You weren’t at risk or anything – it was schoolboy messing around.”

“It’s just that— We were closer than you and Blaise. You and I. It seems _bizarre_ that you might choose him over me for an escapade.”

“What? Of course it makes sense I’d choose him. Draco, you’re not gay!”

“Gay?”

“You’re not attracted to men!”

“That’s hardly the point.” Draco’s nostrils flare as he thinks of it, of _Blaise Zabini_ in Harry’s bed: it’s hardly proper at all, and everybody knows Blaise is something of a _dog_ , and anyway, surely to someone so inclined to men, Draco would be more attractive anyway?

“How can you be jealous of something like this?”

“Jealous? _Nonsense_. It’s simply that I ought have been the logical choice, surely – being as I was your _dearest_ male friend.”

“So you’re saying if I’d crawled into your bed, you would have realized your latent attraction to men and swooned in my arms?” Harry’s question is sardonic and drips with sarcasm: Draco scowls at him.

“ _No._ But out of _politeness_ , I might have—”

“Politeness? What the bloody Hell do you mean, _politeness_?”

“Many Pureblood wizards engage in such behaviours behind closed doors. The crucial thing, of course, is the propriety of those involved, the awareness of the status of those involved…”

“You’re mad,” Harry says. “Do you know that, Draco? You’re absolutely barmy. You’re not gay, but you’re jealous I was with Blaise Zabini at school, except that you’re not jealous, you just think, what? You could have safeguarded my honour better?”

“When you say it back to me like that, it sounds ridiculous,” Draco says.

“That’s because it is ridiculous, Draco.” Feeling an uncertainty in his belly, a strange tension in his skin that he can’t quite account for, Draco frowns deeply, and fidgets in his chair. Harry seems amused, and he doesn’t seem to be taking him seriously, but the very idea of Harry in Blaise’s bed, or vice versa… It _irks_ him. It sets a poisonous itch off in his flesh, and he doesn’t know _why_ precisely. The fact that he cannot identify the feeling makes him angry, makes him want to smash things off the walls, but that’s hardly _proper_ either.

Draco asks, in almost a whisper, “What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“Men.” Harry seems to consider the question.

“Different. It’s different. Girls, they think about emotions, they talk about how they’re feeling. Men... I guess we just feel. There’s more bodily communication, smaller touches, more silent conversation. When you do talk, you talk frankly. There’s fewer expectations, more sensation.” As he speaks, he seems to be thinking deeply, his tone pensive, and he finishes, “Men are more straightforward, I guess.”

“You find relationships with men more fulfilling than those with women?” Draco asks, and Harry cocks his head to one side.

“No, I wouldn’t say that,” he says. “It’s just different.”

“And—” Draco feels his words dry up on his tongue, and he has to force himself to continue on hoarsely, “And physically?” Something has changed in the room. There’s a sort of ozone feel, like the pressure on the air before a storm, and Draco cannot tear his gaze away from Harry’s own.

“Physically? Well. It depends on the man, of course. Some have harder edges than girls, some have more muscles. There’s often more hair – coarser hair.”

“Coarser?”

“You feel it _drag_. If a man is kissing my thigh in the morning, I feel his stubble on my skin, feel the bristles of it.” Draco feels himself take in a soft breath. “Men tend to be broader, bigger. Not me, of course, but it’s… It’s really something when someone can cover your body with their body. Pin you down, make you take it. Men are rougher, I guess. They want what they want: they tell you what they want, with their words, with their bodies. Men _take_. Encourage you to take back.”

“Sounds selfish.”

“Sometimes it is. Sometimes, what’s selfish for the other party can be just as selfish for me. There was a guy who bent me over a table, tied me in place, and he _caned_ me. Can you imagine that? They used to use it as a punishment at Hogwarts – he brought this length of birch down over my arse, and my thighs, and hit me until I glowed red as a beacon. I came _twice_.”

“That’s depraved,” Draco whispers.

“Oh, yeah,” Harry agrees. “Mostly, it’s just the actual sex. Stuff like that… It’s by the wayside.”

“And how does one of these encounters come about?” His voice is hoarser than before, he hears it crack in the middle: he’s as stiff as a board, and he can feel his skin _electrified_. In his belly, there’s an anxious knot of wriggling emotion.

“You’re asking a lot of questions.”

“I’m curious.”

“Alright,” Harry says. “We meet somewhere. It doesn’t matter where. He knows what I am: I know what he is. We go away together, make an excuse – cigarette break, going to get lunch, heading out for the night. He kisses me. Men aren’t as good at kissing as women – they’re sloppier, more desperate, more aggressive. He undoes my robes. I let him. Maybe there’s a desk in the room – maybe he lifts me up onto the desk. I wrap my legs around his, grind myself against him. Maybe I’m hard.”

 _Hard_.

“Maybe he kisses my neck, or bites it. He pushes my robes off, I— Draco.”

“Mm?”

“You’re bleeding.” Harry is moving across the room, and he reaches out. When Harry grasps at Draco’s chin, Draco almost cries out, his hand closing around Harry’s wrist. The other boy very tenderly touches a handkerchief to the lip Draco has bitten open, letting the deep green fabric soak up the blood. Draco is frozen, staring up at Harry: he’s aware that the anxious knot is more anxious than ever, and that between his legs, there’s a stirring interest of something he’d rather not admit to.

“I didn’t realize.”

“No,” Harry murmurs. “Guess you didn’t realize a few things.” Under Draco’s hand, he can feel Harry’s pulse, slow and steady through the flesh of his wrist. Not like Draco’s, which is speeding like a broomstick. “Harry—”

He’s already moving. Harry spreads his legs either side of Draco’s own in the chair, settling his weight in Draco’s lap and dropping the handkerchief to the side as he puts his mouth to Draco’s; if men are worse at kissing, every kiss Draco’s had in his life ought now be declared defunct, because his head is spinning, and he’s never had a kiss this good in his life. Harry’s lips are heated against Draco’s own, Harry’s hands are in his hair, Harry’s tongue is teasingly slipping against Draco’s, touching his teeth, drawing over the bloody opening at his lower lip. Draco feels himself moan into Harry’s mouth, his eyes closed as he abandons himself to the sensation, melts into it, breathes when he can but grasps tightly at the fabric of Harry’s robes and keeps him close.

When Harry’s mouth finally leaves Draco’s, Draco feels himself let out a sound of loss, a gasp, but Harry’s mouth is still moving; his lips drag over the pale line of Draco’s jaw, his breath hot upon Draco’s skin. Draco feels the thin, blond hairs there rise in anticipation, even as Harry mouths lower, touching his tongue against Draco’s _neck_. He seems to trace the very veins of Draco’s flesh, and when he reaches a point at the hollow of the throat that makes Draco wriggle begin him, he drags his teeth over the mark, and then presses his mouth more tightly to the flesh, and _sucks_. Draco heaves in a gasp, grabs at Harry’s robes as he feels the pleasure-pain of bursting capillaries beneath the skin, the heat of that _pure sensation_ , and he has never been gladder to wear the modern, open collar robes his mother is so disapproving of.

When Harry draws away, Draco feels the lingering sting of the new bruise at the column of his neck, and his fingers go dumbly to feel it. How dark is the flesh, he wonders? A softer pink, or a deeper red? The mark is the size of a Galleon, and Draco finds himself wondering for a second how long it might take to change colours.

He looks up at Harry’s face, sees a drop of blood stained on Harry’s chin – Draco’s own blood, he realizes, and not Harry’s.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Harry murmurs. He stands over Draco’s chair, his hands on the armrests, his body between Draco and the light overhead. Harry leaves Draco, quite literally, in his shadow.

“Don’t we?” Draco asks. The dominant feeling is _confusion_ , uncertainty. His skin feels positively electrified, his prick is half-hard under the fabric of his robes (thank whatever gods there may be for the looseness of robe fabric!), and he is breathing heavily, his lips pink and bloodied.

Harry assures him, “No. We don’t. We can talk about my book… We never have to come back to this.”

“I hate hearing about your books,” Draco whispers. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Draco—”

“ _Harry_.” Draco stands, takes Harry by the hands, and leads him down the corridor, into his bedroom. It’s simply decorated: he has a bed without a canopy, a bookshelf, a writing desk. On one wall are more photographs of his family, of Harry, of Draco’s friends. Sometimes, Draco finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed, staring up at the pictures, and wishing some of them were newer. Wishing some of the subjects weren’t now dead.

Draco waves his wand, and every photograph in the room is neatly taken from its shelf, and hangs itself the other way, facing the wall.

“Lot of practice with that one, have you?” Harry asks teasingly, and Draco pushes him back onto the bed. He straddles Harry’s thighs, pinning them with his own (Harry’s thighs are skinny, but Draco’s are well-muscled from Quidditch and gymnastics alike), and he begins to undo the clasps on the front of Harry’s outer robe. After that, the under robe.

Harry is naked underneath. In some ways, he’s more of a traditionalist than people realize.

Draco pushes the fabric from Harry’s shoulders, and with each inch of skin revealed, he finds himself wondering why he hadn’t looked at Harry’s body in more detail before, _examined_ it. He recognizes the scars on Harry’s side, from magical exertion in his first year, recognizes scars from fights with Death Eaters or dementors or the Weasleys’ demented cat, but he’s never _looked_ at any of them before. How couldn’t he have realized that he _could_?

“What’s this from?” Draco traces the scar that bisects the front of Harry’s thigh.

“Grindylow. Last March.”

“This one?” It’s a bite mark, but the mouth must have been only the size of the tip of Draco’s finger; the scar rests just above Harry’s pubic hair – on anyone else, Draco might have mistaken it for something else.

“Opium shark,” Harry murmurs. “They bite you, shoot you full of an opiate mix and an anticoagulant. The more you bleed, the more likely other predators will come through the water and rip you up while you’re in your heroin haze. That way, the shark – barely the length of my index finger – can eat the little chunks from the surrounding area.”

“They’re not in British waters, are they?” Draco asks, feeling this particular _nightmare fuel_ settle deep into his subconsciousness, but Harry chuckles and shakes his head.

“Nah. I didn’t get that in the water. Got it at a house party in Milan.” Draco is too surprised to stop his own laugh, and he leans back, looking down between their bodies. Draco is still quite dressed, of course, but there’s something about seeing Harry like this that makes his body _sing_ , as if needing something to respond in harmony. Harry’s cock is at half-mast, drawing out from pubic hair Draco sees is _fashionably_ trimmed, and curiously, Draco reaches for it.

It shifts under his palm, and he feels the wetness at its head, the slight _pulse_ of it between his fingers, against his palm. It has a pleasant weight to it, girthier than Draco’s own, if a little shorter, and Draco feels his own mouth, no longer dry, but wet with saliva. Is this what he’s been missing his entire life?

A cock in his hand?

“You alright?” Harry asks, softly. Draco looks from his cock to his face, and then he lunges. He tightens his knees against Harry’s hips, throws their mouths together; their teeth clash and Draco lets out a sound of pain, but Harry keeps kissing him nonetheless, puts his fingers through Draco’s hair ( _it’s getting long again, isn’t it?_ ), presses their chests together. “You want to fuck me?” Draco lets out a heady little sound, something more akin to a dog’s whine than a human moan. He feels the heat beneath his skin as his blood flushes to the surface, colouring him pinks and reds instead of whites and _whites_ , and he swallows as Harry chuckles into his mouth. “Don’t worry,” he says, his hands reaching up and under the fabric of Draco’s robes, stroking over his belly, tracing the lines of his ribs. “Don’t worry.”

Harry’s fingers are deft over the buttons of Draco’s clothes, and Harry waves his hand once Draco’s skin is being bared to the room – the candles dim.

“How much wandless magic can you do?” Draco asks. For some reason, the idea of Harry issuing wandless commands to the magic around him, with not even a word, is as erotic as the situation he already finds himself in, and Harry chuckles.

“Not much,” he admits, and he gently pushes Draco from his lap. Adjusting their positions, Harry pushes Draco back by his shoulders, until he is pressed against the headboard of the bed, and then he _dips_.

Draco groans as Harry’s mouth drags over the side of his cock, his breath hot and wet. Women have done this to him before, of course, but never has he felt so thoroughly involved, so thoroughly in the moment: Draco does not believe he could be distracted from this situation were there a siren in his years and an explosion in his hallway. He is sprawled against his own headboard, his thighs spread in an almost-split, and he arches his back and grasps at the wooden board behind him as Harry traces the line up the base of Draco’s cock.

Watching through half-lidded eyes, he feels his tongue dart from his mouth as Harry spells a rich, transparent liquid onto his fingers, his hand disappearing between his legs. But Draco can ask him no questions or demand any answers – already, Harry is moving, his knees either side of Draco’s legs, framing him, and he lowers himself down onto Draco’s cock. The space between Harry’s buttocks is slick and wet and surprisingly _tight_ , and Draco feels himself let out a sputtering moan.

Harry moves slowly, rising up on his thighs and then lowering himself down again: on each downstroke, Draco feels the head of his cock tip against the puckered entrance between Harry’s legs, feels it _clench_ at the very edge of the head, and the very thought of it – not the sensation itself, even, but the very _thought_ of it, of Harry’s hole greedily swallowing him inside, taking him as a woman’s entrance would, tight around him as if desperate to never release him…

The idea sends a shuddering weakness through his body, and he grabs at Harry’s hips, his thighs. Harry shifts his position slightly, spreading his legs a little more: his arse is quite perfectly poised, now, Draco’s cock pressed against the indent of that hole, and yet… It seems so small. Draco knows it mustn’t be, knows that he hasn’t the most generous proportions ever bestowed upon man, and yet, and _yet_.

It seems so _small._

“Do you want it?” Harry whispers. Draco feels the _clench_ of that skin against his cock, playing over the head of it, rubbing against him, so slick, so _tight_. “Do you want my hole? Come on, Draco, where’s that silver Malfoy tongue?” Harry leans in towards him, his hands grasping Draco’s shoulders, his arse playing in sinful little circles. He asks in the tiniest of whispers, exhaling the words, “Do you want to fuck me?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Draco whimpers.

“That’s all I needed to know.” Harry’s arse closes around Draco like a vice, and he slides onto Draco’s cock as if he’s made to seat himself here, as if Draco is nothing more than a toy to be ridden, specially designed. Draco tilts his head back with a cry, his skull hitting the wood board, but Harry is already rolling his hips down, bringing himself up, thrusting himself down, and Draco cannot last – could never have hoped to last.

When Draco comes, it’s with Harry’s fingers in his hair, Harry’s mouth on his lips, and Draco bites at Harry’s lip, tastes his blood on his tongue. He leans back, gasping in his breaths.

“What was that for?” Harry asks breathily. “The bite?”

“Turnabout. Fairplay,” is all Draco can hoarsely reply.

Still half-hard, Harry sprawls in bed beside him, lazily stroking his cock; Draco, even in his post-orgasmic haze, can focus on nothing but the slightly open darkness of Harry’s hole, wet and red and beckoning. Draco is hypnotized by it, even knowing it will take him some minutes to coax his flagging erection to life once more.

“We could have been doing this,” Draco whispers. “At school?”

“Want to see me finger myself?” Harry asks, in the tone of somebody asking if you’d like a scone. Draco swallows. Nods. “Then don’t dwell too much on the details.” Harry slips three fingers inside himself with a practised ease, and Draco moans at the very _sight_.

“Alright. No details,” Draco whispers, and he tries to keep from gaping like a _fish_ as Harry continues on.

 **♛ ✐✐✐** **Jealousy? Nonsense.** **✎** **✎** **✎ ♛**

The next morning, Draco drinks his morning coffee, and he watches Harry water his plants, reply to letters, and edit a draft of his current chapter. He watches Harry brush his teeth, shower, adjust his hair in Draco’s hall mirror.

He does it all quite naked, and Draco says to himself, “Don’t dwell on the details. Don’t dwell on the details,” even as he pins Harry against the wall and licks his way into his mouth for the fourth time that morning.


End file.
